


Every Good Dwarf Does Fine

by htebazytook



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Crack, First Time, Humor, Kink Meme, M/M, Poetry, Romance, Slash, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-29
Updated: 2013-01-29
Packaged: 2017-11-27 12:17:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/661911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htebazytook/pseuds/htebazytook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin is not quite the masterful bard he thinks he is.  Bilbo notices.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Every Good Dwarf Does Fine

**Author's Note:**

> Taking a vague stab at [some](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/1990.html?thread=1888198#t1888198) [prompts](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/1990.html?thread=1696710#t1696710) [from](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/1990.html?thread=1722566#t1722566) [the](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/1990.html?thread=1746118#t1746118) [kink](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/1990.html?thread=1664966#t1664966) [meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/1990.html?thread=1690566#t1690566). Writing poetry again for this was quite a lot of fun. Thanks to [](http://windfallswest.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://windfallswest.livejournal.com/)**windfallswest** for giving me some pointers, and Walt Whitman for being the kind of guy who probably wouldn't care about plagiarism anyway.

**Title:** Every Good Dwarf Does Fine  
 **Author:** htebayztook  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Warnings:** poetry, crack  
 **Disclaimer:** \---  
 **Pairing:** Bilbo/Thorin  
 **Time Frame:** Movie verse with a splash of book canon  
 **Author's Notes:** Taking a vague stab at some prompts from the kink [meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/1990.html?thread=1690566#t1690566). Writing poetry again for this was quite a lot of fun. Thanks to [windfallswest](http://archiveofourown.org/users/windfallswest/pseuds/windfallswest) for giving me some pointers, and Walt Whitman for being the kind of guy who probably wouldn't care about plagiarism anyway.  
 **Summary:** Thorin is not quite the masterful bard he thinks he is. Bilbo notices.

 

Bilbo is just getting to sleep when he hears something unusual. A low rhythmic rumble coming from the edge of the clearing. He sits up slowly, clutching his blanket tight and suddenly wishing he had a sword or something to defend himself with. The rest of the company is fast asleep, Gandalf with his hat pulled down over his face and the dwarves snoring happily all around him. Well, all except for Thorin, who had claimed first watch by glowering Ori into silence when he'd offered to take it.

Thorin is nowhere to be seen now. Has he been captured? Killed? _Worse_? Oh, Bilbo is not cut out for this, waking up from uncomfortable sleep to the near constant threat of danger. He has a terrible tendency to worry too much about what-ifs, and things were in all likelihood perfectly fine.

But then again, _what if_?

Bilbo creeps over the sleeping dwarves to the edge of the clearing, following the noise. His heart is pounding in his chest as he peers around a low-branched elm tree and—

Thorin is there, alive and uncaptured and humming to himself. There is something suspiciously akin to a smile gracing his features, which is easily the most shocking thing Bilbo has experienced since they'd left the Shire.

Thorin gazes out over the twilit country, and the humming modulates into singing, that rich compelling baritone of this . . .

> The trees were tall, the flowers grew,  
>  The moon was white, it rose at night,  
>  The nighttime as it fell was dark,  
>  I sit here silently in quiet. 

Bilbo frowns.

> The woods enclose as I walk in,  
>  The water wets as I walk in,  
>  The sun is hot when it comes up,  
>  And hotter because of armor. 
> 
> The night is warm because it is  
>  In summer and not wintertime.  
>  I sit here quietly at night,  
>  And count the stars, there's more than eight. 

Bilbo backs slowly away.

As he settles back into his makeshift bed he's mostly able to block out the distant singing. These _dwarves_. Ridiculous folk. Can't even put together a decent tune, evidently.

*

The next morning Bilbo finds Thorin brushing his pony and singing quietly to himself. Perhaps it's because Bilbo's more awake, now, but Thorin's melodious singing voice is even lovelier than it had been the night before.

> The morning rises red and bright,  
>  And soon we must away.  
>  The dreams that held us through the night  
>  Go hushed and fade away. 

All right, then. So maybe last night had been a fluke. His voice really was _awfully_ lovely. Thorin finishes buckling the saddle and pats his pony on the nose, disarmingly fond. Bilbo smiles despite himself and takes a step toward him.

> Ready the horses before we may ride.  
>  Saddle them up, for Dwarves do not ride bareback like foolish Elves.  
>  Hey diddy ho! 

Bilbo retreats behind his pony.

*

"Why all the singing, then?" Bilbo asks Gandalf, since Myrtle had been nuzzling up to his horse for the last hour, and Bilbo certainly wasn't about to ask the dwarves themselves, as it would've been unforgivably impolite. "The dwarves, I mean."

"Yes . . . dwarves have been known to sing with some frequency," Gandalf says pleasantly. He says everything pleasantly, actually, and especially unpleasanter things. "It is one of the more charming aspects of their culture, in my opinion. You got a taste of it back in your hobbit-hole."

"That outlandish song about destroying my dishes?"

"Which they didn't . . . "

"Well, _no_ , but . . . well, I certainly wouldn't call it respectable, even so."

"You heard them sing of Erebor, too, Bilbo Baggins," Gandalf says, twinkling. It was no use hiding a thing from him, was it? "Dwarves have a rich history. Ask Thorin to tell you of the deeds of his kin, sometime. It's one of the few things he actually _will_ talk about."

*

Bilbo is happily enjoying the sunset on the edge of camp, puffing on some rather good Old Toby and blessedly free of musical dwarves, when a telltale twig snaps.

Bilbo takes his pipe out of his mouth, mind racing immediately to the worst possible scenarios. But it's only Thorin, standing a few feet away with his own pipe in hand and looking like a hobbit lad who's just tried to make off with an armful of mushrooms and has been caught red handed. Thorin is clearly displeased to find the company's compulsory burglar in his prospective smoking spot, but he resigns himself to it, and even stands next to Bilbo and says:

"We made good time today."

"Oh? Oh, good."

Thorin lights his pipe and takes a luxurious drag. "The mountains grow ever nearer," he says, smoke now curling around him as if the silver streaks in his hair have come to life. His voice is just as syrupy when he isn't singing, actually. Bilbo hadn't noticed til now.

"Yes, well, I'd expect they would. Since we're . . . " Thorin's glaring at him, now. " . . . going . . . east. I say, Thorin! The other night Balin told us that fantastic story about the battle with the orcs . . . I admit I know very little about Dwarven history myself. Might you tell me another tale?"

Thorin's mouth quirks for a moment. "You enjoyed that story? Have you a thirst for adventure, after all?"

Bilbo laughs. "Well, yes and no. Hobbits don't make a habit of adventuring, as general rule. However there are some among my ancestors who were unusually, hm . . . audacious?"

Thorin raises his eyebrows. "It is in your blood, then."

"Yes," Bilbo says. "Yes, I suppose it is."

Thorin's warm little smile is like a tangible thing. Was this the same dwarf whose fearsomeness once sent an army of orcs into retreat, and only just last week silenced Fili and Kili's never-ending game of Spot the Yellow Bird with a look? Bilbo watches him blow an impressive series of smoke rings before lowering his pipe and beginning to sing in that wonderfully sonorous voice of his that nearly had Bilbo disregarding the lyrics.

> When I was young my sires told  
>  Of starlight and the kings of old.  
>  They spoke of how to braid my hair,  
>  And look into the Mirrormere. 
> 
> Our people's pride is duly earned;  
>  The Deathless in his heirs lives on.  
>  They hold their heads up, traveling far.  
>  Now hearken to me! 
> 
> I sing with pride my song  
>  For Durin's line is strong  
>  This journey is my fate,  
>  For I was born this way. 
> 
> Hide not thyself in regret— 

Thorin cuts himself off, thankfully too busy gazing away yonder in reminiscence to notice Bilbo's horror. "Have they very many songs in the Shire, Master Hobbit?" he asks.

"Yes . . . "

Thorin looks back at Bilbo over his shoulder, cutting a dramatic profile in the deep golden shadows of the sunset. "Would you say they are akin to the songs of Durin's Folk?"

"I _could_ say that, yes."

*

While Thorin and Dwalin are scouting ahead with the wizard, Bilbo is stuck awkwardly in the middle of the other dwarves' conversations about mining and Dwarven history and everything else he has nothing to contribute to. Bilbo settles for studying his surroundings. There are considerably more wildflowers in this little stretch of forest, pale primroses and the sun on the daisies.

"Oh aye, and I'll never forget the time he sang a song of _sticks' ends_. He wouldn't listen to me when I tried to correct him, though . . . "

"It's no use, Bofur," Balin sighs, walking a few paces ahead of Bilbo. "Thorin is a formidable and valiant warrior, he shoulders the legacy of his ancestors with the grace of the greatest of the kings of our people, but I'm afraid he never was much good at poetry."

Fili laughs from the back of the procession they've fallen into through the closeness of the trees. "Back when I wasn't much taller than Mr Baggins here, I heard Uncle Thorin making up some nonsense about knitting yellow stockings, I swear it. Apparently there aren't very many good rhymes for 'fellow walking'. We couldn't look him in the eye for weeks, could we Kili?"

Kili, who is walking near to Bilbo, nods so enthusiastically his pack collides with Bilbo's shoulder and practically knocks him over.

Bilbo clears his throat. "Pardon me," he says, and all at once is the focus of eleven sets of bushy-browed eyes. "Thorin's singing is not . . . customary, then?"

"By my beard, no!" Balin chuckles. "It is certainly true, Bilbo, that singing is a custom of ours. That does not mean all dwarves are inherently talented wordsmiths."

Bofur turns around to face Bilbo, hat flapping forlornly in his wake. "Aye, Thorin's a bit unlucky in that department, sorry to say," he says. "Why, even Bifur here's a better bard than our fearless leader." Bofur slaps Bifur on the back.

Bifur jumps, stares sightlessly into the middle distance and sings in a high, pure voice:

> I dreamed a dream of forging iron,  
>  To fashion into weapons sturdy.  
>  I dreamed that rising from that fire  
>  Were balanced swords and axes worthy. 

"Aw, see, that's _beautiful_ , that is . . . "

"Good one, Bifur!"

"Yes yes, all right, I get the idea," Bilbo says, slowing his pace to put some distance between himself and Bifur, who'd frozen completely apart from his legs as soon as he'd finished. 

"I myself favor a bit of free verse," Bofur says, then clears his throat before singing:

> I am not unlike Eagles of the North,  
>  I cannot be tamed!  
>  'Baruk Khazâd! Khazâd ai-mênu,'  
>  I cry o'er the rooftops of the world! 

"Do dwarves often live in houses with roofs?" Bilbo doesn't have much experience with them, personally.

"Well, no . . . "

"Dale had rooftops!" Ori says, then deflates a little. "At least, that's what the stories say . . . "

Bilbo smiles. He quite likes Ori. "What about you, Ori? Have you a sampling for us?"

Ori draws himself up, puts his hands behind his back like a lad in a schoolroom and sings, surprisingly soulfully:

__

> There's a fire starting in my heart,  
>  Reaching the Lonely Mountain, we'll rise from the dark!  
>  Finally to see the skies there crystal clear,  
>  Free of the dragon after these long, evil years.

"Ah, the passion of the young," Balin says. "I wonder if you have heard of this one, Ori. It is a bit old fashioned, I'm afraid." He sings:

__

> Long ago, when the Fathers of the Dwarves were born,  
>  O, the wind and rain!  
>  In the Twilight of the world, when Durin lay alone,  
>  The dreadful wind and rain!

He goes on for some time, singing of how the free peoples woke up one by one in the Years of the Trees, about the ancient halls of all the Dwarven clans, but mostly their own kin. Thorin's company was completely enamored of their heritage, and when they spoke of it even Bilbo felt a stirring of camaraderie. Hobbits cared about simple values, simple lives, and good food. Family names were important (mainly to hobbits who had reputable ones), but respectability was ultimately measured by deeds and behavior in the Shire. There was nothing like this patriotic fervor of the dwarves, this reverence of the past. 

At length they reach the top of a little hill dotted with dandelions. Balin looks out from their vantage point to locate their missing companions while he talks: "Thorin has lived a sheltered life, in a way. He was mostly spared the ridicule of his peers, growing up, being the heir to throne. Not many were brave enough to tell him to his face that his poetry wasn't quite up to snuff, including his father and the king. Then again—and this doesn't leave this hill—between you and me, Bilbo, Thorin's grandfather had always been a bit mad, even before the dragon. It clearly runs in the family, and if sub-par composition is to be its only manifestation in Thorin, then I shall be very grateful indeed."

Kili's been staring sightlessly ahead with a dedication to rival Bifur's. "When we were little, we honestly thought he was playing a joke on us. Crazy Uncle Thorin and his nonsensical songs. But then, well . . . "

"Then, we got older," Fili finishes gravely.

Bombur, who is too busy munching on an apple to formulate a response, nods sympathetically.

There's a pointy blue hat bobbing above the underbrush and headed their way, now, and everyone notices and moves on to other topics, leaving Bilbo once again alone with his thoughts. It's a relief to know that Dwarven taste in poetry wasn't as alarming as he had previously suspected. But on the other hand, Thorin . . .

Thorin bursts into the clearing, grim-faced in a way completely at odds with the birdsong and the dandelions, and Bilbo's relief turns to a kind of sympathy.

*

Bilbo lies in wait for longer than he'd care to admit. Finally, Thorin happens upon him where he's pretending to smoke outside of camp. Bilbo scrambles to sing as Thorin approaches, just a little tune he'd been working on idly on the road:

> Far from the merry hearth at home,  
>  Far over hill and dale I roam,  
>  Beyond the rivers and the streams,  
>  The fields of wheat and hills of green. 
> 
> Behind are skies and sunsets mild,  
>  Ahead are the woods and waters wild,  
>  Away from places I have known,  
>  For ever on the Road will go. 

"You sing of your homeland." Thorin stands before him, every aspect of him somehow hushed and tragic, even in the rich orange rays of the late afternoon sun.

Bilbo clears his throat. "Well, yes. Yes, we do tend to do that in the Shire. We don't often venture beyond its borders . . . have you any songs you sing of your homeland?"

Thorin lights up, which catches Bilbo off guard. It was sweet, really, Thorin's pride in his ancestry. Whenever it wasn't homicidal, that is. "Many songs we have of the glory of Erebor, and of the kingdoms that came before, Nargothrond and Nogrod of old . . . " 

"Right. Please, by all means sing something of Narth . . . nold . . . man . . . er . . . yes."

But Thorin is too engrossed in wistfully watching the tree-dotted sprawl of the bleak country that stretched out around them, which can't have been all that interesting. He sings, and his voice feels somehow more resonant than ever, this close, and especially with Thorin meaning for Bilbo to hear him:

> Deep in the mountains of our home,  
>  We did not choose this path to roam  
>  Away to the other places, streams.  
>  The color of the grass is green. 
> 
> Deep in the mountains which are tall— 

"Ahem! Now, that's all very lovely, very lovely indeed, and I might be wrong, but I _think_ you're reusing a couple of rhymes, there. This makes me feel . . . well, that perhaps you could do a tad better. One thing you could do is _build_ on those rhymes, instead. How does that sound to you?"

Thorin frowns. "They are fine rhymes. You used them yourself."

"That's just it, though—why don't you try rhyming something new? I was singing about the comforts of home, a bit, which is, let's face it, my version of fun. What sort of things do dwarves do for fun, anyway?"

Thorin's stare is uncomprehending.

"You know, for leisure? To relax at the end of the day?"

Thorin continues to stare, but he begins to sing too. His eyes look sharper and bluer than usual.

> Beneath the earth I mine the mines  
>  For minerals, mithril, silver, gold,  
>  Bright gems that in the dark I find,  
>  I'll melt and meld in fires of coal.  
>  The temperature must be exact,  
>  To heat the ore and shape it properly,  
>  It is a delicate process and— 

"Also very lovely, Thorin, thank you for letting me hear it. I do have a suggestion or two, though, just for . . ."

"For what?" Thorin snaps.

"For impro—im . . . agination?"

Oddly enough, Thorin's scowl doesn't whither at all. Bilbo just sings before Thorin decides to pick up that cumbersome axe of his.

> In darkest mines beneath the earth,  
>  Are precious metals slumbering,  
>  Their beauty far outweighs their worth,  
>  They shine like new stars shuddering. 

Thorin scoffs. "That sounds well for a song of your own people. I should not think it very fitting for a dwarf, however."

Bilbo hates that even the vaguest of insults _still_ stings when it comes from Thorin. He pushes it aside. "Well, Moon talk by a poet who has not been on the Moon is likely to be dull. How might I make it sound more Dwarven, pray tell?"

Thorin doesn't look at Bilbo this time, but from this angle his face looks especially regal. He drops an octave to a darker-toned melody that suits his voice perfectly.

> Beneath the halls of Erebor,  
>  I labored long among my kin,  
>  Uncovering the mountain's ore,  
>  The shining minerals therein. 
> 
> I wander now throughout the wild,  
>  So far that I no longer see  
>  Those chambers where the gold was piled.  
>  Those halls are now but memory. 

Thorin turns his heavy gaze on Bilbo, and Bilbo's mouth is suddenly dry. The hobbit clears his throat and says, "More Dwarven, definitely."

*

Bilbo had used to gravitate to Gandalf, provided he wasn't in one of his moods. Now that the wizard had gone, Bilbo was feeling rather out of sorts, and although the dwarves were of course very courteous to him, it wasn't quite the same. There were less knowing looks and sarcastic comments in the air, for one thing.

And so Bilbo dedicates himself to his quest to teach Thorin the basics of decent song-writing. If he accomplished nothing else in the time he'd so far wasted away from home, he would certainly impress upon Thorin the importance of a rhyming couplet.

Thorin is singing:

> Hark to the birdsong of the birds,  
>  Listeneth to the creaking of the trees,  
>  Wherefore they are the woodland bards,  
>  They singeth at night and also morning. 

Thorin looks very smug. Over his shoulder, where the rest of the company has gathered to make their dinner, Dwalin says something to Balin that Balin snickers quietly at. And then Balin whispers it to Bofur who grins and elbows Fili who pokes Kili who promptly bursts into uproarious laughter which draws the attention not only of Thorin, but presumably of every unsavory creature from here to the Misty Mountains.

Bilbo wishes, not for the last time, that he was at home in his nice hobbit-hole by the fire, with the kettle just beginning to sing _words that actually rhymed with each other_.

"Mmhm, mmhm, that's a wonderfully unique take on it, Thorin, truly it is. But perhaps you can try a touch less with the 'eth's and the . . . here, no, calm down now, _don't_ get up . . . " 

Thorin folds his arms and says haughtily, "I do not know to what standards you are judging my verse, but it is certainly foreign to me."

"Oh, really. Everyone knows the rules of poetry come from the ancient El—er, elevensies . . . are . . . my favorite meal of the day . . . is the mnemonic device used for remembering the rules of proper poetic composition."

Thorin raises his eyebrows.

"I'll _show_ you what I mean, all right?" Bilbo hands his pipe to Thorin before he can protest, and sings:

> The birds are singing in the trees,  
>  Who sing the rustling words of leaves,  
>  And as the morning rises new,  
>  The forest's song shall rise up, too. 

Bilbo glances at Thorin, who is gazing at him the way he only did with things that were distant, like the mountains ahead or the past behind. "Well," Bilbo concludes, businesslike. "There we are, then. I'll have my pipe back, now, thank you." Bilbo reaches for it just as Thorin goes to hand it to him, and their hands tangle for a moment before Bilbo recovers his pipe again, the majority of its contents thankfully still intact. The threat of losing some of his dwindling supply of leaf had left him terribly flustered. Yes, that was it.

"Yours was a fine song," Thorin admits, twirling his own pipe absently. It looks artistically delicate, held as it is in Thorin's wide strong hands, out here at night in the wild. He startles Bilbo by looking at him again, expression soft like the smoke of his pipe as it fades into nothingness behind him. "And what shall I sing of? I tire of history."

Bilbo rather doubts that. "Well, sing of the present then."

Thorin makes a face, but does it anyway:

> Before the Misty Mountains cold,  
>  Our journey home at last unfolds,  
>  Companions valiant and true,  
>  Both smiths and warriors, both young and old. 

Bilbo can't help but smile at the familiar tune. It's a splendid register for Thorin, and maybe the smoothness of the tune makes it difficult for Bilbo to judge the quality of the lyrics, a bit.

Thorin catches him smiling and turns suspicious. "That verse displayed all the components of a _proper_ poem, did it not?"

"Certainly, Thorin," Bilbo says innocently. "However I think you'll find you neglected to mention any burglars or wizards in it . . . "

"As to _wizards_ , ours has not the patience for the quests of the dwarves when the elves are playing such merry hosts to him. He has left us, Mr Baggins."

"I haven't left you," Bilbo says. Thorin looks sharply at him and Bilbo gets a little hot under the collar. "For, er, for what it's worth."

"And you think yourself worth much, do you?"

Bilbo shrugs. "Well, I—"

> He has more skill with tea than swords,  
>  He doesn't care for dragon hoards,  
>  He sits beside the fire and thinks,  
>  Where books are all that he explores. 

Bilbo rolls his eyes. "And may your beard grow ever shorter."

The teasing glint in Thorin's eye relents somewhat before he continues:

> He walks in terror of the night,  
>  No matter that the moon shines bright,  
>  But when foul dreams find him in day,  
>  His terror turns to courage and might. 

He blinks at Thorin for a long time. Bilbo had yet to show much courage _or_ might, in his estimation. It was a bit discombobulating to hear what sounded like praise coming from Thorin, but then most of what Thorin said to Bilbo tended to be discombobulating in one way or another.

"Well," Bilbo says, "it's no Lay of Lúthien, but—" 

"Leithian."

"Oh, right, sorry, because leithia means release, and the song is about Beren and Lúthien finding . . . "

"One of the remaining Silmarils, now far beyond the shores of Middle-earth," Thorin says ruefully.

" . . . release together. I mean, once they were united, their love could be expressed and that was a release. I mean—"

"Bilbo. I am waiting to hear your own song of the present." Thorin folds his arms and levels his gaze. It reminds Bilbo uncomfortably of the way he looks at folk who run at him with swords on the backs of wolves. Bilbo's startled into singing without quite stopping to think about what he was singing:

> The Dwarven king is black of hair,  
>  His beard is long, his face is fair,  
>  His heart as strong as his resolve,  
>  And all his smiles warm, if rare. 

Thorin strokes his beard (which isn't actually all that long) thoughtfully. "Hmm. Very nice, indeed. It is not, of course, a style of lay familiar to my people . . . "

"Oh yes?" Bilbo can't look away from the look in his eyes. "And what sort of lay would you find more palatable, then?"

Thorin laughs quietly, leans closer. "I do not—"

Dori is approaching them with a polite, if strained, expression. "Thorin, Bilbo, do come and join us. I'm afraid dinner has _already_ got cold, as you didn't come the first time I called. Or the second couple of times, after that."

Bilbo can't imagine the promise of food hadn't perked his ears right up, but then again Thorin's singing had been throatier and more sensuous than usual. He scurries off to the camp, and Thorin sits next to him like it's an unspoken habit of theirs.

*

The others stay up late into the night singing songs and making merry in Beorn's house, but Thorin had wearied of the company early on and retired. Bilbo follows soon after, and when he pads by Thorin's room there's a pale sliver of light peeking from under the door.

Bilbo considers knocking, but never does end up doing it before he goes inside without invitation.

Thorin is sitting on his bed in just the loose black tunic and thin trousers he wears beneath his other clothes, turning the key Gandalf had given him over in his hands. He doesn't look larger than life, right now—he looks oddly mundane, and full of the uncomplicated thoughts of normal people, whispered fear and bitter uncertainty and tiny hopes. He doesn't notice as Bilbo leans against the door and folds his arms.

"All right, then," Bilbo says, determined to snap him out of his brooding. "Let's hear it."

Thorin starts, head whipping around. "To what you are referring?"

"Your apology. Do go on."

"I . . . _have_ apologized," Thorin says, getting angrier by the minute. "I have apologized in front of everyone—the company and the Eagles and all who live on the Edge of the Wild, had they an ear to the skies."

"Yes, well . . . "

"I _embraced_ you," Thorin accuses. He does in fact make it sound like an accusation. 

Bilbo laughs. "Forgive me, Thorin. I was having you on a bit, if you see what I mean. I do of course appreciate what you said, and—"

Thorin looks caught between fury and answering laughter, but instead he sings:

__

> He hasn't Dwarven brethren,  
>  Is not a Man or an elf-friend,  
>  But when this hobbit's song began  
>  My voice long silenced sang again.

He'd walked nearer and nearer to Bilbo with every word, and now he stood but a breath away from him where the air between them seemed to vibrate with the echo of uncomplicatedly beautiful music.

Well then, Bilbo thinks, as Thorin leans ever closer. Going back was no good at all, and going sideways was impossible given the grip Thorin had got on his arms. Thorin tilts Bilbo's chin up and lowers his mouth and yes, Bilbo thinks, going forward is the _only_ thing to do.

Thorin's beard is softer than expected, but his mouth is hard and hot and insistent and fascinating. Bilbo gasps at the sensation, and Thorin only kisses him harder, so that they stumble backward a bit and land dizzily on Thorin's bed.

Thorin looms over him while Bilbo fails to control his breathing, stops and starts a few times before managing, "Thorin?"

"At your service."

Bilbo laughs and pulls him down by his tunic and kisses him again.

"I do not wish you do think me forward, Master Hobbit," Thorin breathes into Bilbo's ear, which only makes Bilbo shiver and wish he'd be as forward as possible. "But neither do I wish to waste our time in this shelter from the wild, and especially now that I have you here . . ." He presses Bilbo harder into the down mattress. " . . . under me and so very clearly eager . . . " He's grinding his likewise very clearly eager erection against Bilbo's now.

"Oh no, I quite agree," Bilbo says, then slips away from Thorin enough to reverse their positions. "However, I can see both sides of it." 

Thorin looks wonderfully caught off guard, and the sight of him with his chest half-bared and heaving, lean and muscled in a way that Bilbo somehow hadn't expected to find beneath those excessive layers of clothes, and . . . well, it was unfairly compelling, and that was that.

Thorin pushes Bilbo's jacket off his shoulders, leans up to kiss at Bilbo's neck distractingly while running his hands all over him. Bilbo sighs and decides immediately that he loves things unexpected after all, and Thorin begins removing Bilbo's waistcoat and—

"No!" Bilbo's surprised to find his hands gripping Thorin's like a vice. He feels too frantic to register the wariness in Thorin's expression because he _has_ to put his waistcoat somewhere safe, carefully and mindfully and the last thing Bilbo wanted was a _dwarf_ coming across his little golden souvenir of the mountains . . .

When Bilbo turns back to Thorin his mind's at ease again. Well, as much as it can be when it is clouded with lust and Thorin has a hand inside his breeches.

Bilbo had been thoroughly ready to sleep off the physical and mental stress of the last several days in a proper bed with proper bath and the promise of a proper first and hopefully second breakfast in the morning, but the dwarf who keeps writhing around appealingly while stroking Bilbo's cock has his priorities quite out of sorts, and Bilbo can't find it in himself to care very much about it.

Bilbo does have the presence of mind to reciprocate, at least. Thorin's cock feels huge in his hand, hot and hard just like his kisses and his eyes and the way that he is. Bilbo is wracked with sharp sweet impulses, and he thinks not at all about the how or why of anything as he chases them.

Goodness, this is what it must feel like to be a full-blooded Took. Oh, how dreadful.

Thorin has ideas of his own, too, some of which involve removing all of their clothes with impressive efficiency, and also the lavender scented bath oil stowed handily by the washbasin. He warms it in his hands before coating both their cocks in the stuff and stroking them simultaneously in his fantastically calloused grip, which was heavenly indeed, but it wasn't enough.

Bilbo pushes Thorin flat onto his back again, grins at the slight widening of his eyes, and then is completely enthralled by the way they darken with desire as Bilbo slips his hand low between Thorin's thighs. Thorin nods before Bilbo asks, hands Bilbo the oil and stretches out like a cat. Like a sweaty, breathtaking cat. And one who groaned low in his throat the same as his singing while Bilbo's fingers worked carefully inside him.

Bilbo takes his time and goes slow, which is no easy task given the way Thorin bears down on Bilbo's fingers impatiently. Bilbo's got three fingers in when his hand begins to tire, so he lifts one of Thorin's legs up for better access and _then_ when he pushes back inside him Thorin gasps and clutches Bilbo's arm and can't seem to find words but nods and squirms and responds so beautifully to each ensuing little thrust of Bilbo's fingers.

Thorin's long arm reaches for the oil again, stretch of sinew and flex of tensed up muscles, scrabbling on the bedside table for it and pouring it messily onto Bilbo's cock before saying, with eyes closed tightly in desperation, "I _want_ you. _Now_."

Bilbo tugs Thorin closer, lines his cock up to his entrance and slides in more quickly than intended, but it feels blissfully good, and anyway Thorin only angles his hips for more of it so Bilbo starts thrusting into him. Thorin's hair and eyelids jostle, and his collarbone tastes like sweat and like Thorin when Bilbo bends to lick along it before finding his mouth again. The sound Thorin makes into the kiss is as delicious as the feeling of him impossibly hot and tight around Bilbo's cock, rocking himself into the friction of it so shamelessly and gasping, "More, more, this, oh _this_ ," to Bilbo's hair. 

Bilbo presses Thorin's hips into the mattress more securely and thrusts more slowly just to hear him beg. He tries to lift one of Thorin's legs up a bit more too, but that makes things suddenly awkward considering he _can't_ quite lift it up, and he's unbalancing now and . . .

The echo of Thorin's laughter is little consolation for having fallen off the absurdly high bed. Thorin hauling Bilbo back up onto it by one hand astonishingly does not improve his self-esteem very much, either. 

"Here, just—"

"No. Bilbo, _no_."

" _Ow_! Was that your elbow?"

"Actually . . . "

Bilbo laughs and wraps his fingers around Thorin's cock in apology. "Oh, you're so _hard_ , though."

"Move," Thorin says, but he ends up moving Bilbo himself, and soon has the hobbit on his back and is sinking slowly onto his cock again.

" _Ah_ , that's so . . . so much better, _ah_ . . . "

"Oh, _Durin_ . . . "

Bilbo laughs, although it's mostly just labored breathing at this point. "You've some ancestors named after him, haven't you? Do you suppose they went around saying things like 'Oh, _me_!' or 'The last light of My Day will shine upon the key-hole'?"

Thorin doesn't answer. He does move faster over Bilbo's cock, and Bilbo can only grasp his hips and strain up into the amazing heat of Thorin's body as much as possible and moan occasionally whenever Thorin's keen eyes went hazy, settled beseechingly bluely on Bilbo and _oh_ it felt _so_ thoroughly good . . .

Bilbo's hand on Thorin's cock had become quite listless, so Thorin changes the angle of his movements to thrust into it again, and that wakes Bilbo right up, and it only takes a few forceful strokes before Thorin's coming. But he's not only coming:

> Like bursting stars or quaking earth,  
>  Like clashing storm or fire's birth,  
>  My blood boils hotter than the sun,  
>  More thrilling than a battle won. 

Bilbo will always know, deep down, that the sound of Thorin's voice pushed him over the edge more than his erratic thrusts or even the squeeze of his body contracting around him, though he's not about to admit it.

Thorin lifts until Bilbo's cock slips out of him, then sort of drapes himself across Bilbo, which doesn't leave Bilbo feeling as out of breath as expected. He just feels snugger and more content, if possible.

"Why are your feet so cold?" Thorin says lazily.

"I am a _hobbit_ , Thorin," Bilbo says, feeling equally lazy about the whole business of conversation. He pulls the forgotten blankets over them both. "You work it out."

*

"Burglar! A good morning to you." Gloin is the first awake for breakfast, and he sits next to Bilbo at Beorn's long (and all-around enormous) table.

"Good morning," Bilbo says. Gandalf appears in the doorway, trailed by a few of the other dwarves, though Thorin is not among them.

"Good morning? Good job, I should say," Dori says.

Kili bounds up to the table and claps Bilbo on the back before sitting next to Gloin. "Oh yes, congratulations are in order, indeed!"

Bilbo stares.

"For last night, of course!" Gloin says.

Bilbo _stares_.

"You certainly taught Thorin a thing or two, eh?" Kili says, nudging him.

"Oh aye," Bofur adds cheerfully, "you really drove it home, seemingly."

"Don't be bashful, Bilbo," Dori says, and Bilbo can only gape at him. "We heard Thorin loud and clear."

"I daresay everyone between Khazad-dûm and the Iron Hills did," Kili says. "You must be terribly good!" 

"I, er . . . well, you see, the thing is . . . "

"Bilbo Baggins," Gandalf says fondly. "Not only a master burglar, but a bard with talent to rival the court poets of the hidden kingdom of Doriath in the Elder Days."

"Oh," Bilbo breathes. "Oh, I see. Oh, thank the stars."

Balin, who had only just joined them, favors Bilbo with a wide smile. "Yes, very skillful work, Bilbo. Goodness knows Thorin needed it." And Bilbo has an unhappy suspicion that Balin may not be as oblivious as the rest of them. He blushes and concerns himself with his breakfast.

After they've packed up and got underway, and after he's been subjected quite long enough to the younger dwarves' idea of fun (today it was making up more accurately descriptive names for things, like pointy-throw-at-enemies-stick and see-with-it-fire-stick and walking-stick, although in retrospect the last one didn't really count), Bilbo slows his pace until he is walking abreast of Thorin and Dwalin, who typically bring up the rear and talk seriously in quiet voices.

Dwalin nods to Bilbo, but Thorin doesn't acknowledge him much apart from taking care not to make him step in puddles or run into trees. 

"I am beginning to understand it, I think," Bilbo says, in far too good a mood to be troubled by Thorin acting troubled all the time.

"Understand what, laddie?" Dwalin asks.

"That there is no going back." Bilbo gestures around them. "This whole enterprise of adventuring. It's not meant to be comfortable or fun, it's not the same as preferring a nice cup of tea at home to a tiresome trek up Stock way to The Golden Perch. The adventuring isn't really for the sake of adventuring or some flimsy Tookish excuse to leave home because home is uninteresting. I'm beginning to see that adventures are things you do because you must, to find something, and that their purpose isn't to leave something else behind."

"Well spoken," Thorin says. "There is nothing like looking, if you want to find something." He doesn't look at Bilbo, but he does sing:

> The Road goes ever on and on,  
>  And closer day by day to home.

And to Bilbo's ears, Thorin's words are just as pleasant as his voice is, now. Bilbo sings:

> Home is behind, the Road is long,  
>  But ever on and on we roam.

Bilbo almost misses Thorin's tiny smile, but it's there all the same.

*


End file.
